District 4 Reaping
Cyma Dolore, 18
District 4 Female
"Yah!" I yell, the exclamation torn from my lips as I swing my knife toward Delphina.
She meets the stroke with a crack, blocking it with her own weapon. Deftly, I twist my blade up and over, hooking it under her hand guard and sending her own knife flying from her grasp. She puts her hands in the air in a joking gesture of surrender.
"Beaten again," she says. "If I wasn't your best friend I'd kill you in your sleep."
I laugh. "Del, if you weren't my best friend you'd never have the chance." I raise my hand to my face, clearing it of the sweat that beads in droplets on my forehead, and pushing back a few strands of hair that escaped from my braid. My hair is straight, but most people think it's curly because it's always either braided or wavy from being braided. It's very thick, and when unbraided is quite a nuisance.
Of course, a Victor must keep up appearances, and so ever since they told me I'd be representing District 4 this year I've let it grow out. The Capitol loves beauty.
"I am so sweaty it's not even funny," Del says, rubbing her perspiring face even harder than I'd just rubbed mine. She flops down against the wall with a sigh, panting. "And I just showered too. Hopefully I wont look all greasy at the Reaping."
"Doesn't matter," I gasp, still panting. "You're not the one that's going to be on camera."
"I know," she sighs. "I'm so jealous. The eyes of Panem will be on you. Including the eyes of the boys of Panem."
"Hah," I say. "Don't let Salvo hear you talk like that. He might feel under-appreciated." Despite my light-heartedness, the words come out slightly bitter. It's hard not to feel jealous of Delphina's easy relationship with all members of the male gender. She's a born flirt, and I've ended up riding third-wheel more than once when hanging out with her.
She's nice, and we've trained together since we were little. We're both throwing-knife girls, though we spar hand to hand a lot like we just did now. I've always known I could win the Games, and Del could too if she wanted, but she's more into the knives as a sport, a way of taking up her time and proving her superiority.
Though actually I can beat her and nearly always do.
Yes, she's nice. Usually I feel more fulfilled around Monica. Monica's my other best friend, and she's nearly the opposite of Delphina. She's sweet and quiet, and she never wanted to enter the Games. Her very first year of training she wasn't asked to return to the academy, and went to work on a fishing trawler. I didn't understand her decision then, and I don't think I ever will, but she's still the girl that's been like a big sister to me, and even like a mom in some ways, though she's only a year older than I am.
I never knew my real mother, she died giving birth to me, but I've seen pictures and know that we have the same big blue eyes and auburn hair. Wild as a tempest, my father would say, until I lost him too.
Monica was there for me then also, and she's helped me hang onto myself even when I'm feeling lonely. I live with my grandparents now, and they take good care of me, but I know from snippets of dialogue heard in the dead of night, and moments of accidental eaves-dropping that I remind them of mom. And that hurts them.
They never take it out on me or anything, but I'll catch them giving me a sad glance, a sigh from my grandfather, a tear from my grandfather, or a murmur picked up by my keen ears: "She's so like our Cami."
The malaise I fall under when I think about this lies heavily on me now as I leave the gym\not-so-secret training center, and even the stream of cheerful chatter kept up by Del can't quite pull me out. I slept over at her house last night so I wouldn't have to worry about taking the bus and getting in in time for the Reaping. I live toward the edge of District 4, and getting to the Reaping would mean cramming onto a trolley with all the working-class kids and then tumbling out right as the videos start. Instead, Del's hospitality has given me a chance to loosen my nerves with a bout of sparring and still have time to get myself looking nice for my big moment.
We walk down the street toward her house. The smell of fish lies heavy on the air, and I can see people moving about the ghostly streets in the morning fog. There is a sense of gloom in the air that I can't quite understand.
I've trained my whole life for the Games, but a large portion of our District doesn't, in fact in many areas the resentment against the Capitol is barely veiled. There have even been years where no one volunteers, and some years we'll have a girl volunteer but no boy or vice-versa. From the conversations between tributes that go on during the Games, I've gathered that Districts 1 and 2 both have much more efficient training centers, and that there have even been cases where a tribute beat up the person who was supposed to volunteer so that they could go to the Games instead. They even take pride in it.
To be honest, I've always liked District 2 tributes myself. There is an aura of strength and command about them. As we reach Del's house and head upstairs to get ready, I think about that. I'm going to have to have that confidence too if I want to win.
I'm still strategizing as I look in Del's bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on my appearance. A strappy blue dress, long and ruffly in the back but short in the front shows off my long legs, and a silver necklace sparkles against my chest. I dab a bit of moisturizing salve on my lips and unbraid my hair, letting it curl around my shoulders. It's straight, but I have it in a braid so often that when it isn't it looks curly.
Outside, Del taps her foot impatiently. "You ready yet?" she calls.
"Yep," I say, inspecting myself one last time and heading for the door.
We leave the house together, and already the fog has begun to burn off. The day promises to be a real cooker. Summer days in Four usually are.
The sun bathes the streets in light, showing me that Monica stands on the curb waiting for us.
"Hey, Cy," she says softly as we walk up. "You're planning on going through with this?"
"Absolutely!" I respond. "Why? Do you not believe in me?"
"Oh no," she says quickly. "It isn't that. But do you really want to risk your life for fame and fortune? You already have a nice life here in Four."
"It'll be worth it," I tell her confidently. "But seriously? Nice life? Sure, it's nice now when the District is so desperate for glory that a few of the wealthier families pay for the training of us that want to, but what about next year when I'm nineteen? I'm going to, what, spend the rest of my life with jellyfish in my hair, smelling like a fish, being seasick, and working on a boat?"
Monica smiles. "It's not that bad, Cy. You are right about the jellyfish, they get all tangled up in the lines and drip down on your head, but when you're out there smelling the sea, all alone with just a few of your closest companions, you don't feel it at all. You love the water, Cy. And the sun. It would be perfect. I've worked long enough I could probably even pull a few strings and get us on the same boat."
"And where would that leave me?" Del cuts in.
I roll my eyes as Monica sweetly tries to explain her perspective to my rowdy companion. The two are as different as night and day, and I'm used to them arguing.
I tune out. There's nothing I need to hear anyway.
My mind is made up.
Enzo Garrix, 17
District 4 Male
My eyes linger on the bright steel of the arakh as I step outside the door. Brighter is the sun, glancing in stabs of white off the sparkling azure of the ocean. The brightness would almost be painful if it were not so beautiful, but I am a fisherman's son. I love the sea, it calls me, and it holds no terror. I can squint my eyes at just the right angle to neutralize the glare, and sometimes it feels like if I wanted to I could sail straight to the sun.
Behind me, I feel Hazel's light touch on my shoulder, warm and sturdy, but somehow soft all the same.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says.
"Yes," I answer, smiling.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," I repeat.
"Good." she says. "I know you'll win, Enzo. How could you not? You've trained all your life with that beautiful sword. How could you not?"
I turn to her, admiring the gold luster of her blonde hair. It and her blue eyes contrast sharply with the brown of her skin, as lustrous and smooth as the nut for which she was named. She is a daughter of the sea, even as I am a son, and the tan of years on a beach lies on her skin. Sometimes I can imagine her as Venus, rising from the waves on a chariot of shell, born by horses of foam, even the waves bowing to her as she passes.
When I come back, we will together be king and queen of the sea.
With a last, lingering look at my grandfather's old weapon, I close the door. Mother and father stand in the road, waiting for us, their faces shaded in the shifting patterns of the palm tree outside our door. It grows between my uncle's fishing dock and my parent's front porch, shading the communal fire pit between our two houses. When my grandfather died, his fishing tackle and boat went to my uncle Lorenzo, but the house and the sword went to my father.
I have always admired the arakh, and am sorry my grandfather will not be able to see me compete for the glory of Victor. It was with his old weapon that I have trained with, and it will be in his honor that I will win the Games. It will also be for Hazel.
When I return we are to be married. I can already hear the sweet strains of Four's wedding song swaying in the air, but first I must win so I push the sweet fantasy away.
I follow mother and father down the path and onto the main road. The chatter in the main square is already audible even from here. We live only a few blocks away, and as Hazel and I clasp hands, turning a corner, the scenery changes abruptly. Instead of the well ordered little fishing cottages that dot the shore we are now in the manufacturing sector. The fresh salt of the sea is replaced by the rotting smell of discarded fish that always seems to wrap the canneries in an evil-smelling cloud.
I shudder. My mother was, and still is in my opinion, the most beautiful woman in the District, and yet she was trapped working here in the canneries by some cruel twist of fate. I think that is what attracted my father to her though, was the patience with which she bore her burden. She never complained and was grateful to be able to take care of her family.
Hazel's like that too. I've seen her ward off advances from other boys, and from the beginning our eyes have rested upon each other and each other alone.
I'm an only child, and I want to give any children that may be born of my love for Hazel the very best life I can. With Enzo Garrix a household name in Panem, my children will have that life.
"Enzo, watch where you're going!"
Hazel's voice, tinged with alarm pulls me out of my reverie. I glance around.
Then jump.
Less than a foot from my face is a rope, dripping with fresh grease, that ties one of the great fishing trawlers to the pier. Two more steps and my face would have been besmeared.
I step back and pull her to me. "The prince is supposed to do the saving in a romance," I tell her. "Not the other way around."
"Oh, Enzo." She fakes a pout. "You know I'm no helpless female. Now put me down or we'll be late."
She has a point, and I set her on the dock before we continue inside. We stop just within the door, standing in line until it is our turn to sign in. I wince as the needle pierces Hazel's soft flesh, sending a drop of ruby blood onto the white paper. I hate seeing other people touch my girl.
She catches me staring and rolls her eyes.
Then it's my turn, and I have to feel a sense of satisfaction as it takes them two pokes to get a satisfactory drop. I have built up calluses from hard training on my hands, and they show my strength.
Hazel is ready to waylay me the moment I am signed in.
"What was with you there?" she says. "It was just a poke. I'm not a helpless female."
"No," I tease, "you're my helpless female."
I probably would've done something stupid then, like tickled her, but she gestures to the people around us and I content myself with kissing her hand, earning myself another eye-roll. The job of lover is a thankless task indeed, I decide, filing into my section.
Except, of course, when it isn't.
Cyma Dolore, 18
District 4 Female
When he walks in the door, I swear my heart stops beating. A tall boy, with swarthy skin and laughing deep brown eyes. All the same, there is a thoughtfulness behind the touch of humor in those brown pools that speaks to me in the same way Monica does: comforting.
He's tall for a teenager, the same height as the peacekeeper signing him in. There is a shadow of beard on his face, and his thick, dark eyebrows give him a focused look. I don't think I've ever seen him before; if he trains he must train at home.
Jealousy flares as I see the girl who was in front of him say something, a joking frown on her face. He says something back before playfully kissing her hand. Great. Right before I'm scheduled to head off to the possible-death-games, I see prince charming. And he already has a princess.
I berate myself for my foolishness. What place does a crush have in the Hunger Games? I'm going to need to focus if I want to win. But that boy…my eyes can't help but follow his thick black hair as his head bobs away into the boy's section, a full head taller than the rest of the crowd.
He's only seventeen, Cyma, I tell myself as I notice the age section he enters. You're eighteen. Get ahold of your feelings. Focus. Focus…
I am grateful for the distraction when our escort Tilly Pompadour, followed closely by the Mayor, arrives on stage. Her outfit is actually rather pretty this year, thick brown hair swept back and dyed blue and white at the tips. Curling above her head in an elaborate bun, it resembles the curving crest of a wave. Her multiple ear peircings hold delicate pearls, and her dress, slit high up the leg, is studded with blue sequins. The same blue sparkle surrounds her eyes, along with green paint, and dolphins swim down her arm.
She actually represents the district quite well, in her own Capitolish way.
She taps the microphone, sending thuds from the speakers that reverberate throughout the pavilion.
"My dear friends," she begins, "it is simply wonderful to be here yet again, my tenth year as escort to District 4. I must begin this Reaping with some disappointing news: I will not be returning next year as I have been offered the position of assistant commentator. I am sure you will all accept this, and I promise to think of you when I am speaking for Panem next year. Please think of me when you see me onscreen. I will remember the warmth and beauty of this District, and forever hold its tributes in a special corner of my heart."
I applaud with the rest, though unlike most of the rest I will actually miss her.
"I appreciate your acknowledgements," she continues, stilling the crowd with a motion of her bejeweled hand, "but this is the spotlight for our tributes, not for me, so I will now proceed with the lovely film our President deigns to show us every year on this day."
Right on cue, the documentary of the Rebellion begins to play, reminding us of everything that happened and yada-yada-yada, blah-blah-blah. I know this by heart. As the final note sounds, I smooth my hair away from my face, getting ready. Tilly moves toward the girl's bowl.
"I now prepare…"
"Wait," Del hisses in my ear. "you've got an eyelash stuck to your face."
"…to select the last female tribute I shall have the privilege of escorting." Her hand dips for the bowl.
Del finishes brushing the offending hair from my cheek.
"Thanks," I mutter.
"This year's tribute is Alyssa Monaghan."
A fifteen year old with chestnut ringlets, steps forward, looking around nervously for a volunteer. I don't move, toying with her for a moment as tears begin to well in her eyes. She thinks she's actually going to have to go.
Then I make my move. "I volunteer as tribute," I say, my words clipped and precise, as though I'm stating an obvious fact.
"Wonderful," Tilly beams. "I see my final year is going to be very pleasant. What's you're name, young lady?"
"Cyma Dolore," I proclaim, loud enough that the mic picks it up even though I'm still only halfway up the steps. "
"Panem, I give you Cyma Dolore!"
She gives me a moment in the spotlight, and I see my grandparents slowly clapping for me in the back of the crowd, their faces unreadable. Then she gets back down to business.
"I'm sure we're all eager to see her companion, so I'll waste no time in selecting our male representative of this lovely district." She walks to the male bowl, selecting a name. "Emarius Waler," she reads.
I see a movement in the boy's section, the sixteen year olds I think, but then a decisive voice announces: "I volunteer."
I look for the speaker and barely restrain a gasp. It's the boy I saw earlier. Now how am I supposed to focus with prince charming following my every move?
He mounts the stage, walking up to the microphone and introducing himself to the world as Enzo Garrix. My eyes linger on him longer than they should before turning back to the sea of applause as Tilly announces our names. He extends his hand and I shake it. It is warm and strong, rough from work, probably on the docks.
Stop being such an idiot, I tell myself. You're a romantic fool Cyma. Only one of you can come back. Besides, you saw how he looked at that fisher girl.
Like she was Juliet or something.
Enzo Garrix, 17
District 4 Male
All is quiet in the Justice Building, and it is actually colder inside than it was outside. Probably air conditioning, I think. I'm so used to it being hot out that the cool breeze actually annoys me a little. I don't handle cold very well. I hope the arena will be warm.
Bored, I stand up and move to the window. The water sparkles outside, and several seagulls glide in the breeze, but their cries are hidden from me by the thick pane. Pigeons peck at crumbs among the stones, taking to the air as a stray dog prowls into view. I will miss district Four, I think.
Then, farther down the beach, something silver glints, catching my eye, and I remember why I'm here. The weathervane atop Mags Cohen's house twirls lazily in the shifting breeze they ruffles the greenery planted in the Victor's Village. That's why I'm here.
To win, and to get Hazel the life she deserves.
Just then the doors swings open, and my mother and father come in. I'm their only child, and for a moment a pang of doubt assails me. Was it right for me to give them the possibility of living life without me?
But then my doubts are dispelled as my father wraps me into a hug, his sturdy arms making me feel safe, and secure in my decision.
"I'm so proud of you Enzo!" he says, He turns to mother. "Our boy's going to be the next victor, eh Emili?"
She nods, though her eyes are teary.
"Enzo my son," her voice is soft, like she's trying not to cry. "I wish you all the love ad power in the world. You are a true honor to us." She hugs me as well, and for a moment we stand, her tears wetting my shoulder even though she's smiling.
"You have a wonderful girl in Hazel," my father says. "She loves you Enzo. When you're in the Capitol, don't forget that."
I sense the warning in his words, but he needn't fear. I would never abandon my sea flower for some Capitol peacock.
"We'll let you say goodbye to her now," my mother says.
"One moment Emili," my father says. He pulls something small and silver from his pocket.
"You're lucky fishing hook!" I say in surprise.
"Correction: You're lucky fishing hook," he tells me. "Where there is water, you'll never starve. Remember that. And don't hesitate to run if the alliance begins to crumble. You'll always be able to outrun the careers even if you can't outfight them. Goodbye Enzo, and good luck to you!"
They leave the room, and I tuck the fishing hook into the pocket of my blue shirt. It means a lot to me.
Then Hazel comes in and all else fades from my mind. She's blinking back tears, and as our eyes meet, her face crumples.
"Oh Enzo…"
Then she kisses me, ferociously almost. I'm surprised. Hazel has always been fairly reserved. That doesn't mean I don't respond in kind though. She looks me in the eye.
"You come back, Enzo Garrix. I don't want to be an old maid. If I am it'll be your fault, and I swear I'll haunt you even in heaven."
I have to laugh at that. That's my Hazel.
"Don't worry baby," I tell her. "I'll be back for dinner."
She smile, kissing me softly this time, before leaving the room. I can still smell her sweet scent on the air, like guava and coconut and sun and sand all rolled into one.
When she's a Victor's wife it might start a trend...
I laugh at the image of Capitol women trying to imitate the beauty of my mer-princess. They could never pull it off. No amount of spray-tan could give them her healthy glow, no amount synthetic oils her fresh smell.
Thinking about those things, I steel myself for the journey ahead. The Capitol's going to be a very different kettle of fish from District 4, yes indeedy.
Cyma Dolore, 18
District 4 Female
I don't expect them to say goodbye, so when they come in, tears streaming down my grandmother's face, it's a shock.
She's crying as though she'll never stop, completely unhinged. "Cyma, oh Cyma, Cyma, Cyma!"
She throws herself onto me and hugs me.
The sight frightens me. They didn't care for me, and that made it easier for me to think that neutrality was normal, a necessary element of staying sane while going through life. I wasn't afraid of the Games because I wasn't afraid of death and I wasn't afraid to kill. Now I'm not so sure. I am always awkward around upset people, but I do my best to comfort her.
"It's alright, Nana," I say, patting her shoulder awkwardly. The word feels strange on my tongue. I have not called her that since my father died, when I was still simply their grandchild, not a young woman who reminded them of the daughter they had lost.
She gives another sob at the use of that name, then steps back, standing beside my grandfather. Her eyes are still wet, but they no longer look defeated.
They are determined.
"Here," she says, pulling something off her finger.
I gasp in surprise. It's her wedding ring.
"Your grandfather and I have talked it over, and we want you to have it. Will you wear it into the Arena?"
Her voice is tense and defensive, as though daring me to refuse.
"Of course I will," I say, my voice breaking slightly. And this time I'm the one that steps forward, pulling them both into my arms.
"I'm sorry Cyma, I'm so so sorry," my grandfather whispers. "We should have been grateful to have another daughter, not constantly comparing her to the one we lost. You have been a blessing, Cyma, even if it's taken us years to see it."
"Thank you grampa," I choke huskily. "Thank you."
When the peacekeepers come in they leave without a fight, but the hard band of metal in my palm, bearing a delicate imitation sapphire, reminds me that they are with me now.
When Delphina and Monica come in one at a time one, hugging me and wishing me luck, I thank them and try to show them that I will miss them, but my heart is not in it.
It is far away, wondering what might have been.
I *yay!* have finally gotten a blog up. All the tributes' pictures are posted there, so you'll get some sneak-peaks at some of our outer district contenders. The blog will be fleshed out and new features added once the Games begin. The link is on my profile. Be sure to let me know what you think!